


The Glaciers Made You (And Now You're Mine)

by garnettrees



Series: Love Songs From the Imperium [3]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Accidental Marriage, Aftercare, Alpha Tony Stark, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Space Opera, Artist Steve Rogers, BAMF Tony Stark, Body Worship, Bullying, Extrasolar Colonization, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gender Issues, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Intrigue, M/M, Misunderstandings, Non-Linear Narrative, Omega Steve Rogers, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Tony Stark, Post-Earth, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Press and Tabloids, Protective Bucky Barnes, Psychic Bond, Pulp Science Fiction, Scenting, Self-Esteem Issues, Soulmates, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-06-11 22:26:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15325734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garnettrees/pseuds/garnettrees
Summary: It may not be the scandal of the decade, but it's up there: wealthy, controversial industry alpha Tony Stark, caught in a spontaneous bond with Steve Rogers, the skinny kitchen boy everyone thought was a beta.On a planet of rigid hierarchies, political intrigue, and false histories, Tony Stark doesn't play by society's rules and Steve-- beta or omega-- is thelastperson the world should underestimate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose having three A/B/O fics makes any protest that I don't really _write_ A/B/O fics kind of… invalid? ^^'' I enjoy reading them, I just never thought they'd be in my repertoire. Apparently I missed a memo somewhere.  
>  This started out as a brief mention of Stony in my otherwise Charles/Erik fic, [The Singer, Not the Song](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3526919/chapters/7757984). While they take place in the same universe, each can be read on their own. This thing just bit into my ankle and wouldn't let go. 
> 
> **Trigger Warnings:** Dub-con inherent in a/o heat situations, fictional society/religion enforcing power dynamics and associated discrimination. The author read _way_ too much pulp Sci-Fi at an impressionable age. Brief use of questionable terminology (see expanded warning in end notes).  
>  **Additional Warnings/Enticements:** smutty Stony flashbacks (actual smut to follow ^_~), biting, claiming, rimming, possessive Tony. Tony has an oral fixation and skinny!Steve has a mouth on him.
> 
> Expanded terminology warning: the term 'passing' is used once with a meaning analogous to the colloquial/slang meaning it had regarding race/sexuality in the mid-twentieth century, but in the context of fictional gender-identity. No disrespect or offense intended. 

_Floating over your rocky spine_  
_The glaciers made you, and now you're mine_  
-"Your Rocky Spine" by The Great Lake Swimmers

 

Steve wakes to the slide of reverent fingers through his hair and the sight of fish swimming unconcernedly above him. It's difficult to say which of these factors is more disconcerting, especially since the fingers belong to the veritable stranger who is now his bondmate. Those same strong, dexterous digits retreat suddenly, drawing Steve's attention from the crystalline ceiling above to the alpha curled close around him. His companion looks torn between fondness, embarrassment, and some other emotion Steve cannot quite name. On a beta or omega he might call it 'tremulousness', but surely no alpha-- least of all the genius heir to the Stark fortune-- would show or experience such uneasiness with their own bonded.

Regardless, it makes Stark's already handsome face seem younger, almost boyish. Tony, Rogers corrects inwardly. His mate had not wanted to be addressed as 'alpha'-- he insisted Steve say his given name, over and over, even when that wicked tongue was making articulation rather difficult. After taking Steve's kisses, what Tony seemed to want most of all was the name of his new omega. He'd said the sound of it tasted good, that _Steve_ himself was delicious and (though memories of last day or so are more than a little bit jumbled) Rogers is pretty sure there isn't a centimeter of his body the alpha hasn't become intimately acquainted with. Though he'd never put much thought into the mating habits of alphas-- such contemplation seemed unsafe, like thumbing one's nose at the Devil, the solicitude still strikes Steve as… unexpected.

 

He's blushing now, a sad tell that always involves his whole thin frame, while their mutual expectant gazing spins out into interminable silence.

"Good morning," Steve says quietly, at last deciding that a little courtesy can never go amiss. The brown eyes regarding him soften, and the accompanying chuckle could never be mistaken for derisiveness. He'd look away, feeling rather exposed, but the only other real option is the high, ornate ceiling. The suite is as opulent as the chamber-staff have led him to believe; the enormous four-poster bed is draped in opaque linen, open only to the thick block-glass tile above. It gives the occupants an obliging view of the fountain one storey up, where fish flit about in the glow of dawn streaming down through the open courtyard and one way mirror. Guests on the next floor cannot see the newly bonded pair below, nor can the fish, who likely wouldn't care anyway. Now that he's in a position to think somewhat rationally, however, Steve finds the whole setup is making him feel very self-conscious. 

"Good morning," Tony replies, stroking his mate's hair just once more, this time with a single and almost tentative finger. He seems both encouraged by the polite greeting and somewhat at a loss. The latter is not surprising. When he'd come to the Grandmaster's Alpha Club, the industrialist would only have expected free-flowing drink, drug, and entertainment-- certainly not a random _veritas_ bonding with an omega everyone thought was a beta.

 

It's true, then, Steve acknowledges-- but only in the dark, empty spaces behind his heart. The reason for the faint thought is two-fold: first, the difference between understanding and acceptance and, the second, sheer self-preservation. He can feel the newly formed bond humming along his surface considerations, what the Church calls 'a twining of the outer souls'. Right now, confusion reigns between the bondmates-- static cutting in and out so often one can barely make out the song. Gender Treachery-- what is more colloquially referred to as 'passing'-- is illegal. Steve can't even hazard a guess as to how the alpha would react to the revelation that he was not, perhaps, _completely_ unaware of his true status.

Sickly, small, and hardly a sound genetic match for anyone, Rogers had been classified a beta at twelve, and the results were the same when he was retested per mandate at fourteen. No one ever questioned it; _he_ never questioned it, save sometimes in the dark when he felt simultaneously lost in his body and spiritually claustrophobic, or in the depths of fevers that always seemed a little more than whatever common cold was making the rounds. 

 

His distress-- if not the cause itself-- must be evident, for Tony makes a gentle crooning noise, smiling apologetically. "I've been lying here for almost an hour," Stark confesses, "looking at you and trying to think of something charming or clever to say." He rolls his dark eyes in odd self-deprecation. "Preferably both-- I have a reputation to uphold."

Steve experiences one of those absurd upwellings of affection so mythologized in bonding romances: a sense of rightness at odds with the raw facts of his situation, a rush of comfort and warmth. It goes a long way towards dispelling the slow, icy panic clawing at his spine, and so he welcomes it. Whatever else, Tony has been a kind and considerate mate throughout the bonding heat-- the blazing kaleidoscope of broken recall still leaves no doubt of that.

"How's that working out for you?" the smaller man asks, taking one of those calloused hands in his own and squeezing gently. The rumors must be true-- despite the stereotype of the aristocratic alpha, Stark must do a great deal of engineering work himself. 

"Not so well," Tony chuckles. As quickly as the delight appears, it is submerged beneath a more serious look of concern. Stark's face is as mobile as it is neo-classically beautiful, expression not at all concealed by his neat, if eccentric, beard. "Are you well? In pain anywhere?"

 

Steve bites his lip, expecting that his blush has only deepened, and duly takes stock. Shock and dismay are likely incipient, hounds baying just beyond the sacred halo of his alpha's pheromones and embrace. That isn't the question, though Lord what talk there'll be in the village-- Rogers, of all people, climbing the social ladder with a lucky spontaneous bond! They'll expect him to be grasping-- enterprising and overjoyed. There are also, he recalls with more poignant horror, always plenty of reporters at the Club. The Grandmaster keeps a separate Press Balcony for entertaining media cronies, welcoming mainstream and muck-raker alike. He even seems to remember a few holo-cam flashes as he'd run into the kitchen, while Bucky shouted indistinctly at the other bouncers and worked in vain against the tide of the crowd. 

"They're carrion-feeders," Tony tells him, somber but also dismissive as he catches the last image associated with his mate's discomfort. Steve's only salvation likely lies in the fact concrete thoughts are far more difficult to pick up, even amongst veterans of _veritas_ bonds. For his part, the beta-- the _omega_ , as he supposes he must learn to think of himself-- can sense Stark's long-held disdain for reporters of all stripes, and the maelstrom of protectiveness any slight to Steve now inspires. 

"As you likely know, I am their frequent target," the engineer continues. "In fact, I've thought of investing in their drivel myself-- might as well get a cut of the money they're making off me." The prosaic tone melts into something steely, covered over with velvet only for Steve's benefit, "They won't be exploiting _you_ to titillate their audience, though. I can promise you that."

 

The sentiment is much appreciated-- almost sweet, though he's as yet no judge of his alpha's conscious character-- but hardly material. Given Tony's fame (or infamy) the story has almost certainly been beamed around the entire planet and back by now, noted in every digitized journal and covered by any holo-program even touching on science, industry, academia, or politics. The minute Steve disentangles himself from his enticing new mate, he's going to have a more-than-academic understanding of just what a nightmare this is. It's going to hit him like a ton of bricks-- like a right hook from Rumlow, that bastard alpha prime of the schoolyard. Rogers never backed down from a dust-up with the behemoth, but he almost never came out on top, either. 'Sometimes,' Bucky would say, 'I think you _like_ it. You the only beta I know with the guts to take on an alpha, and you don't even have the firepower to back it up.'  
None of these thoughts are exactly compelling motivation to get out of bed.

"Thank you," is Steve's eventual response, in part to soothe the less-than-reasonable protectiveness common in newly-bonded alphas. It doesn't sound particularly placating, but the darkness edging around Stark's expression shows he too is aware of the clamorous world outside their borrowed chamber door. The inventor, of course, will have more fiduciary concerns to consider-- that, and his balance on the dizzying cat's cradle tightrope that is life in the corridors of Imperium power. You might be able to come up with a list of potential bondmates that present more of a political liability than himself, Rogers realizes, but it would be a short list, and it would take a while. His Ma would remind him to be himself, since 'people will think what they like no matter what you say'. 

In answer to the question of his wellness, still very much evident in his companion's dark eyes, Steve murmurs, "I'm fine." 

It's a rote response, and he ruins it by choosing that moment to push up on his elbows in a clumsy attempt to sit. The bed is a sybarites's dream, embracing both occupants to a point that makes keeping one's balance in the softness an exhausting effort. Flinching (and blushing-- why not multitask?) in a manner impossible to hide, he bites down on an accompanying groan as unfamiliar muscles loudly register both their existence and their complaints.

"I see my omega and I share the same nonstandard definition of 'fine'," Tony smiles, leaning in. From beneath decorously lowered lashes-- it's such an act Steve wants to laugh at himself-- Rogers tries to gauge if this is some incongruously jovial prelude to chastisement, stiffening in spite of both intention and discomfort. Only a kiss lands on his cheek, dry but ardent as the very first caress. "We speak the same language."

 

_'Do we?'_ Steve wonders, for there must yet be cooking grease and dish soap under his nails. He'd tried to clean up when Bernie ordered him out on the floor, clad in a borrowed servitor's uniform that practically hung off his frame. The Grandmaster would not care that they were seriously understaffed and the ill-prepared shift leader had known as much, just as she'd been certain Steve wasn't in a position to disobey. The club has clear standards of aesthetics and professionalism and, at the time, he'd been half-afraid his employment would end before the night itself did. Oh, to be at once right and so devastatingly wrong! Ruefully, he considers it something of a miracle Tony was able to scent him at all over the pungent mixture of a thousand exotic spices and plate scrapings.

_Is_ it a miracle? It would be hard to argue otherwise. _Veritas_ bonds-- spontaneous, true connections sparked by spiritual or genetic compatibility (depending on one's philosophy) occur in less than forty percent of the population, and convention ensures that most of these are only within the same social strata. Great care is taken to keep like with like. Yet this bond _has_ defied the odds. If Peggy-- a far better manager-- had been on shift, if Steve had been down with one of his innumerable illnesses, if Tony had not booked that particular dining terrace… A definite confluence of events then, yes, though perhaps just as easily malign. The Prince of Darkness can work wonders almost as well as the Solar Lamb. Yet Steve's stomach turns at the thought of losing this nascent connection, despite the fact its bound to cost him dearly. How can he want something-- _someone_ \-- to this degree when the whole situation is like a comet slashing through the night sky? So bright it blinds, making it difficult to tell just what the falling object is beyond simply gorgeous, amazing, and very obviously a harbinger of change. 

 

"Are you afraid of me?" Stark asks, too absorbed in the inquiry to sound hurt. His face is that of a man presented with ancient Pre-Burn runes, or some esoteric quantum formula. He's trying to _read_ Steve, but it seems there's a language barrier after all. 

"I'm not afraid of anything." It's a reflexive response, and actually not quite true. Steve has known fear, as all rational creatures must at some point, he just never lets it stop him. It's a distinction most people don't understand and, if the bravado of the absolute must stand in its place, so be it. "I _am_ uncertain of you," he admits. "I imagine you feel the same way about me, at least a bit." Stark has far less to worry about, though. He is an alpha, and so every high card already belongs to him.  
Now, so does Steve, at least in the eyes of the Law.

"I must stop being astonished by you first, I expect," Tony replies philosophically. His hands steal to his mate's hips, turning the omega over gently and massaging the muscles at the small of his back. It's lovely-- helpful _and_ soothing-- causing a now-familiar lassitude to settle over Steve like a mist. While the brunt of bonding heat seems to have passed, it's unlikely to be over just yet. Desire burns like coal fires beneath a barren moon, waiting, mindlessly seeking exit. He could let it rise now to swallow everything, drag Tony down beside him, his own skinny arms like a garland about his alpha's corded neck. 

 

( _Stark crawls into the omega's embrace fairly early in the proceedings-- at least, once the Monitors, bouncers, and a red-headed beta who might have been Tony's handler herd them swiftly to one of the guest chambers. The alpha, all but carrying his prize-- who had just enough sense left to avoid the indignity of literally being swept off his feet-- at last lays Steve on the bed, efficiently stripping him of what little waitstaff uniform remains. Standing back to strip free of his own formalwear, he suddenly stills completely. Naked and almost frozen, he looks down at the other man as though presented with something infinitely precious and unexpected. Not unaffected himself, Steve swallows hard. Stark is well formed and he finds the sight of an alpha at attention simultaneously erotic, familiar, and a bit absurd. A beta is not much different from the 'protector' sex, save in natural purpose and sterility. Up until now-- _even_ now-- Rogers would have felt only a distant, embarrassed envy looking on someone like Tony. A healthy body and alphahood-- what's not to covet, even if covetousness is a sin? A part of him still thinks there must be some mistake, some cosmic clerical error in play, though he's dizzy with pheromones and the only thing in the world with any clarity or vibrance is the man before him. He's slick, too, which would feel damning if he wasn't also aware of just how pathetic the dribble is. Maybe he's nothing, neither beta nor omega, neither fish nor fowl…_

_Tony is breathing hard, standing before the bed as though pressed against some invisible barrier. It's not indecision or uncertainty-- can alphas even experience such emotions during rut?-- but rather as though Stark awaits some liturgical cue, a sign he does not know but will immediately recognize._

_If Steve had been trained as a proper omega, they might have stayed that way until they passed out from heat fever, or at least until Stark entered a feral fugue. Instead, Rogers raises a hand, palm out, curling his fingers inward, parting then his arms in invitation. That's all Tony needs, skin to skin with alacrity, crawling up Steve's body as one seeking shelter rather than conquest._

_'A safe harbor,' Steve thinks disjointedly, while his new mate croons and coddles and peppers him with unaimed kisses. A deft, sculpted hand reaches between them, down _there_, and the omega cannot help but tense. Yet Tony is gentle, a single finger deftly circling, dipping in a hypnotic pattern that has Steve arching up, clenching around the digit and whining for more. His alpha makes faint shushing noises, trailing kisses down and down, until at last a wicked tongue begins adding to the moisture collecting at the smaller man's core. It's…)_

 

It's tempting, even now. Steve has the choice to think rationally, for a little while at least, but it is not yet an obligation. Tony's eyes are dark, glittering, depthless water by the light of golden moons. 'Umber,' Steve thinks, because he has a watercolor stylus just that shade. It's never seemed like a color that communicated passion or tenderness before, but it does now. 

His recollections, the stirring of his loins in eroticism and shame (some of the things they'd done--! If the acts _aren't_ forbidden by the Church, it's only because no one's been imaginative enough to consider them in the first place), are conjuring an answering fire in Stark. Steve could drown them both right now, and maybe that's only fair.  
After all, Tony had him disarmed before the battle really even began.

 

Rogers had been ready to fight at first, not quite understanding (or perhaps not ready to understand) what was happening. Stark, having caught enough of the ill-prepared servant's scent, had almost jumped him as he turned from the table. Having enough sense to know the palatial amber-and-carnelian floors of the Grandmaster's banquet pavilion were no place for a brawl, Steve's first thought was to get away from the crowd. Alphas take umbrage occasionally, especially when in their cups. It's uncouth, but so is half of what goes on in such clubs, especially the ogling of 'entertainment' betas dressed and scented in omega 'drag'. Unable to think just how he'd challenged the guest's authority merely by bringing euphoric to the table, Steve had dropped the entire elaborate drink tray (which was thankfully DuraChina) and high-tailed it for the relative safety of the kitchen, where he could at least defend himself without an audience and fight on familiar ground.  
He recalls thinking mournfully that he'd just ruined this gig for both himself and Bucky-- their longest continuous stretch of employment, thanks to Steve's health.

All of this had left Tony to follow, deaf to the shouts of his compatriots, chasing Steve down isles of industrial equipment while his quarry calculated hasty strategy and at last, massive pot lid in hand, turned for a show-down. Rogers isn't sure what happened to his makeshift shield-- at some point, he was staring at the alpha with a dizzying feeling of revelation and only his bare fists raised. 'Apocalypse,' they called it in catechism class, 'a drawing back of the veil'. He'd certainly _felt_ naked, an intoxicating scent cresting over him in waves, alien, inescapable, and yet familiar as his own skin. 

Tony never reacted to Steve's offensive posturing, and certainly not in the way textbooks described. There had been none of the violence an omega was taught to expect if they had the temerity to to balk at an alpha's attempt to bond. In fact, it was the one scenario in which aggression from omega was an acceptable; the 'honor' knife most unbounded omegas carried with them being a supposed token of the pre-Exodus days. It was generally felt that, should an omega succeed in fending off a potential mate, there was something wrong with the match anyway. Yet Steve can think of no example of the situation in recent memory, and the odds for an omega going up against the institutionalized martial training alphas receive are hardly encouraging. Certainly, his mother's honor knife had done her no good.

Steve himself carried no such weapon-- he never has, for betas have no need of them. Nor had he ever entertained any murderous impulse towards his attacker. First, he'd wanted only to dodge the confrontation, saving his-- and Bucky's-- job. Then, as the truth began to filter into his conscious mind, his goal had turned to disarming the other man, keeping himself from injury, and figuring out just what the hell was going on. Alphas were said to see even chase as a challenge, but Stark had only brought his own two hands up slowly, giving plenty of time for refusal before gently cupping one of Steve's fists. The kisses Tony laid on those boney knuckles held no force, no demand. They were a petition, a show of restless yet coiled patience, as the precarious stones of a mountain must anticipate the avalanche. Inevitable, unstoppable. Tony's eyes said, 'It is only a matter of time, but I will wait with you.' Steve still doesn't really know how to interpret this supposed aberration, seduction and plea where only force or violence had been expected.  
Of course, he is now his alpha's ward, legally vouchsafed to Stark's mercy. There may yet be retribution.

 

All of this passes through Steve's mind in a handful of moments, the sort of mental calculus omegas must perform all the time as they try to suss out the finer details of what is and is not permissible. He feels these considerations wending between the emanations of coruscating light and incomprehensible equations that stem from Tony's end of the bond. 

Something shutters in Stark's interior castle then, a slamming echoed in his expression, though it seems the blocking of shadow than a refusal of illumination. Steve can't help but think of Old Earth ruins, the labyrinthine and often incomprehensible structures of pre-Burn civilization which were always said to be tenanted by atomic wraiths. The current world has no tradition of ghosts-- a thousand years of carefully designed civilization on a previously uninhabited world is hardly conducive to such things.  
But people can be haunted just as easily as places. Perhaps more so.

( _the briefest of impressions, not even outlasting the flare of a match. a woman's indistinct profile, the turn of porcelain cheek in the glow of particolored lanterns. soft, powdered, but bearing the bleeding scar-kiss of a ring, fresh and impossible to hide.  
'Oh, get the damn dermalPlast. For Hermes' sake, Maria, I didn't hit you _that_ hard.'_ ) 

For a moment, Tony looks frustrated and almost baleful, but he's tender as he pries Steve's fingers from their rictus-grip in the soft bedding. 

"I wouldn't," the alpha intones, trying for briskly factual and failing. "I _won't_ , alright? Ever."

"I believe you," Rogers tells him, reinforcing this with an earnest nod. A part of him feels guilty-- for the inchoate accusation, the illicit knowledge from the bond, and his own statement of faith when he's not fully certain what they're talking about. It feels like a splinter in his own heart, though the protective shielding he developed long ago argues that only G-d can issue penalties for a person's private thoughts. Perhaps that explains the old aphorism, then: 'Alphas still your tempers, betas still your tongues but, in the stillness of omegas, G-d requires the sum.'  
Having never been very good at the first two, and well aware of the spectacle he made in the kitchen, Rogers doesn't think his career as an omega is off to a very good start.

 

"I suppose we should get out of bed," Tony agrees belatedly, harkening back to an earlier part of the conversation as though the last few minutes simply haven't happened. "I'm not so foolish as to think we're completely out of the woods yet, but we should make arrangements while we can." He rolls off the high mattress with ease, looking back at his mate inquisitively. "Unless you'd like to finish the heat here?"

Now that its a matter of proving himself, the temptation to lure his alpha back evaporates entirely. While not quite reduced to using the gilded bed-stool, Steve's dismount is far less graceful. The whole sheer-draped monstrosity is on a raised marble platform, too-- it's Roger's considerate opinion that tall people (i.e., everyone else) like to stick steps, even if only a few of them, in odd places on purpose. He takes a moment to savor the borrowed height before descending to join the other man. Level, he barely comes up to Stark's shoulder. While he may be alright in the face, Steve has no illusions about the rest of himself-- even if you leave off digging through his genetic profile, he's no prize. Most everyone in the Imperium meets a certain default standard of aesthetics, by virtue of prenatal care and the selective stock from which this latest iteration of humanity stems. People of his own class may not be able to afford or gain access to some of the corrective procedures the gentry enjoy, but 'biological sports'-- _atavisms_ \-- like Steve are still rare. Right now, Tony is getting his first look-- by no means objective just yet-- at his mate: gangly, sharp-shouldered, possessed of boney chest and protruding ribs that make him look perpetually half-starved no matter much food Bucky surreptitiously moves onto his plate. His palms are too big, fingers slender enough to favor artistic pursuits and, while he is considered of surprisingly acceptable… intimate size for a beta, such endowments are considered too much to make for an attractive omega. The less said about the width of his hips in relation to successful birthing, the better.

Flinching inwardly, Steve realizes he has his arms crossed over his chest, less a gesture of modesty or coquetry than sheer combativeness. If Tony notices, or subjects his mate to any sort of evaluating gaze at all, he gives no sign, instead reaching into a nearby bureau for the complimentary robes stocked by the chamber-staff. Like everything else at the Grandmaster's establishment, the selection is even more gaudy than it is luxurious; concoctions of velvet with plush quilted lining, wispy satin delicacies shot through with metallic thread or brilliants. Shrugging into a mantle adorned with predatory birds, the alpha hands Steve a similar one done in crimson and gold, rooting amongst their discarded clothing with his free hand. When he triumphantly holds up a holopane, the smaller man leans forward eagerly, absently pushing up the robe's long satin sleeves. 

 

"What day is it?" Steve asks, trying to hike the whole garment up so he isn't tripping over it. 

"Second of the ten-day," is the absent reply. The businessman is already playing quick, clever fingers over the touch screen, no doubt checking stocks, messages, news alerts, and any of the other myriad aspects of connectivity that compose his professional life. Vaguely, Steve marvels over the juxtaposition of this consummate business stag with the flagrant libertine portrayed by the media, but a greater part of him is focused on a more prosaic surprise. The Church keeps a more traditional calendar-- supposedly a hold-over from Old Earth-- but Rogers is used to seamlessly translating between it and secular time-keeping. The last date he remembers is nine of the ten-day, always a hectic time at the club, comparable to the old Saturn's Day frenzies of Pre-Burn chronology. Now here he is with Tony, three days later, with only a directionless and sensual fugue to show for his missing time.  
_'And a life-long bond,'_ some meticulous voice notes within. Aloud, Steve says, "Three days. Maybe we are finished, after all."

Tony looks up at this, what was obviously intended as only a swift glance quickly morphing into a prolonged and hungry gaze. His eyes are very arresting-- entrancing, their attention almost a palpable thing. A tongue, shockingly pink amongst bruise-colored lips and dark goatee, darts out briefly, as though tasting the air. "You look--"

"If the next word out of your mouth is 'adorable', we're going to have a problem," Steve informs him mulishly, focusing on the robe's irksome sash even as his face heats again.

"--very well in my colors," Stark finishes, as if that is what he intended to say all along. Perhaps it is, for the smaller man belatedly realizes that red and gold are the engineer's trademark-- the unapologetic branding on all shuttles, mag-lev trains, and even the starships he designs. Chuckling, the alpha steps closer, tenderly stilling his mate's flustered hands. "You're very direct."

Hardly an ideal omega trait-- Steve recognizes that, but can't and won't apologize for it. He is who he has always been. A few days of sound mating and biological reclassification aren't going to change that. "I don't have any training," he remarks after a beat, deciding to let the bald facts speak for themselves. "I thought I was a beta and, even if I hadn't, it's not as though Brook's Village has a legion of etiquette instructors." 

 

The alpha draws closer still, leaving barely a breath between their bodies. "Do you think I want one of those delicate whips of blown glass? Some sort of automata that says 'Yes, Alpha' and 'No, Alpha', and knows every standardized erotic pose?"

_'I don't know what you want,_ ' Steve thinks. He's seen passion and tenderness from this man, but also abstraction and an odd mercurial flickering of attention. His own perceptions are unreliable too, their three-days acquaintance mired in lust and blurred recollections. No matter how intimately connected he and his mate may be, he is at present armed only with a guttering match. How can you know someone utterly right away, even a soul mate? If someone returned to you a missing limb, wouldn't it still feel strange after its prolonged absence? 

If Tony's 'overheard' any of this, he gives no indication, busy pushing aside the robe's lapel to marvel over the omega's fresh bonding mark. It must be vivid blood red now, though it will fade to a muted but still discernible niveous silver. Steve sways, deliciously lost and clinging to fistfuls of Tony's mantle. Predictably, the alpha employs his mouth for a far more thorough investigation of the new mark, contentedly nuzzling behind the shorter man's ear. It's the sort of adoration that could quickly become addicting. Perhaps that's what Steve is afraid of-- of what things will be like for them beyond the the heats that bind them via biological imperative. 

 

( _Rogers isn't used to meriting a second glance unless his unfortunate mouth has run away with him, but Tony gazes on him with terrible focus all throughout their couplings. Even as they move together, Steve feels an absurd sort of pity for his mate. Or, not pity, not really, since the sickly son of Sarah Har'Rogers has had enough of _that_ to hate the taste, loathe to inflict its sugar-poison on anyone else. 'Empathy' is perhaps a better word; a solicitude so tender it almost hurts. Even through his own pheromone-induced trance, Steve can see it-- how the alpha is intimidated by the conflagration they have sparked between them, but is equally fearful it might be taken away. For this brief period-- despite his powerful compact, form and phenomenal intelligence-- Stark is not the pinnacle of evolution, a member of the might sex which led humanity from the atomic ash. He is instead a disoriented creature, at times almost child-like in his honesty. Possessive, dominant, but still utterly desperate for a single caress, for a sip from the chalice of Steve's mouth._

_'I just want you so much,' Tony says, more than once, and if their unions are at times violent and frantic, then Steve is still an equal and willing participant. The smaller man does bruise easily, though-- marks Stark laves with shame-faced delight, watching his mate's face as an ancient sailor might watch the night sky. Rogers tries to soothe him, unmoored but somehow still aware that, while he may someday learn to ride these waves, his mate never will._ )

 

"I love your blush," Stark murmurs, the barest hint of fang nicking against his captive's earlobe. "It makes me want to lick it off you." They're rocking a little, almost slow-dancing, though Steve doesn't actually know how. "You haven't answered my question," he prompts gently, though Rogers would bet good money the alpha does not at present remember what the aforementioned question was either.

"I don't know anything right now." The reply sounds bleak, far more raw than Steve ever intended.

Tony stills abruptly, but his withdraw is slow-- a feat of applied will. His look is a searching one, though he keeps his arms about the omega, who himself makes no attempt to leave. In fact, Steve laces his fingers at the base of Stark's neck once more, all the while wondering if the alpha will come to resent him for the sway he now holds. Perhaps this is the power for which omegas are punished, the daily measures of protection and limitation a way of extracting payment for this period of inversion. The least of all polymorphisms, able to destroy their masters with a look or a touch. Even alphas who bond for political reasons, with no imperative and far milder heats, know the threat is out there. 

"I…" Tony rests their foreheads together, voice sounding as ragged as his mate's did a moment ago. Is honesty always so painful, scouring against the throat? "I hate to admit it, but I feel much the same." A new variation on his smile-- their variety seems as endless as Stark designs featured on holocast-- is both vexed and self-conscious. "This is all rather surreal, isn't it?"

"Yes," Steve replies simply, which is apparently enough for the alpha to draw him in tightly, taller form bowing over the smaller. Tilting his face up, relieved at the all-encompassing embrace and the knowledge they are at least united in honesty and confusion, the omega finds himself once more staring at the lazy drifting of the impartial fish above. Mostly to himself, he says, "Those really aren't helping."

"What isn't helping?" Stark asks, pulling away to search his mate's face for distress. Steve points upward with a sheepish look and Tony gazes as instructed, seeming to notice the elaborate and unusual ceiling for the first time. "Huh. That's a bit much, even for the Grandmaster. Does it bother you?" Then, without waiting for an answer, "I'll have them find us another room."

"It's fine," Rogers soothes, unable to laugh at the thunderous expression of umbrage on his behalf because he knows the alpha cannot control it. Then, more musingly, considering their present entangled position. "I guess we aren't finished."

That earns him an almost conspiratorial grin. "Guess not. Would you like me to see if I can arrange for us to leave?"

"Do you think we have time before the next wave of…" the omega waves his hand vaguely, unable to think of a term that isn't either embarrassingly clinical or so steeped in beta patois as to be unintelligible to outsiders. 

"Honey," Tony tells him with no small amount of pride, "I have a skim-shuttle. We can be in Hu'Maliwo in forty-five minutes."

 

The endearment, show and cavalier though it may be, settles like a searing ember in the omega's loins. Tony has bestowed endless pet names on him in the last few days, from the fairly prosaic ('sweetheart', 'darling') to the puzzlingly eccentric ('cream-drop'? 'sugar-blossom'? and what the hell is a 'gummy-puff'?). As long as none of them involve the word 'little', Rogers supposes he can take them in stride. He's more accustomed to well-meaning insults as signs of affection-- being a beta, at least within one's own social class, is like being a member of a rowdy extended family. Amongst their own, betas are the world's put-upon herdsmen, shaking their heads over the other polymorphisms and commiserating about life in the trenches. 

With Stark, of course, it's different. What ought to sound condescending comes off as somehow charming, an invitation to share a private joke. There's real affection there-- Rogers can sense it even without the bond, and the emphatic augmentation makes each sobriquet feel like the lapping of a warm sea. The behavior is brash, dazzling, and utterly natural, the same way Tony's entrance instantly puts him in control of any given room. Steve's had a few glimpses of the business magnate before, always from the safety of back passageways and servant's stairwells that riddle the club, invisible as all the Grandmaster's staff are meant to be. The alpha is difficult to miss, even from a distance. On the raised gambling pavilion, where the golden columns and railings give the overall impression of an expensive birdcage; out in the mezzanine during revue intermissions, mingling with a crowd that always parts for him like the sea before Moses' staff. Stark's legitimacy is that of a liger striding through its territory-- command by virtue of _being_.

The alpha is purring like a liger now, Steve thinks half-hysterically, still swathed in the surreal impressions they've discussed. The bounding scar adorning his neck is a clear source of pleasure for his mate, who runs a gentle knuckle along the shape of it. Unconsciously, Rogers parts and licks his lips, an instinctual invitation answered with the press of Tony's mouth, though not with the devouring passion he's become accustomed to.

"Breakfast," Stark says, communicating the word more through vibration than sound. He takes a step back, clearing calming himself. "Before I sink my teeth into something else entirely."

 

The notion of breakfast has an astonishing effect on Steve, as if the mere mention of food is all his stomach required to roar to famished life. Someone must have hastily stocked the chamber with fruits, cheese, and vitamin cakes before ushering the newly bonded couple inside-- he can still see the detritus on the nightstand, and vaguely remembers licking sweet juices from Tony's fingers while the alpha fed him pieces of a fruit whose center was like a violet star. The 'provider instinct' at work, though Roger is lucky the unidentified offering didn't turn out to be once of his yet-unknown allergies. 

"What would you like to eat?" Tony asks, perhaps subconsciously inspired by his mate's thoughts. Then, just as quickly, "Never mind, I'll have them bring a little of everything." 

 

They've finally managed to get more than an arm's length apart, Stark reactivating his slim palm-sized screen with a thumbprint, obviously ready to make the first in a series of calls. His eyes are still fixed on Steve, however, their gaze as palpable to the omega as invisible fingers slipping under his robe. It is for this reason-- the preservation of coherent thought, for both of them-- that Steve mumbles something about the 'fresher, gesturing vaguely towards the adjacent sliding door, and high-tails it in that very direction.

_'It's not a retreat,'_ he thinks rebelliously, hastening towards what little privacy he can still attain, _'it's a strategic withdraw.'_

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expanded terminology warning: the term 'passing' is used once with a meaning analogous to the colloquial/slang meaning it had regarding race/sexuality in the mid-twentieth century, but in the context of fictional gender-identity. No disrespect or offense intended. 
> 
> Meredith's Glossary and Bizarre World-Building Notes:  
> [+] _veritas_ \- the truth, or the Goddess of Truth, daughter of Saturn in the Roman Pantheon. In this 'verse, a spontaneous true bond triggered by genetic/spiritual compatibility (depending on who you ask), as opposed to a bond arranged for political purposes.  
> [+] _Har'_ \- in this 'verse, the formal equivalent of 'Miss/Mr.' for omegas. 'Citizen' is used for alphas and betas.  
> [+] _'tweener_ \- slang term in this universe for a beta or younger alpha in 'drag' as an omega, basically creating the only 'opportunity' alphas have been pre- or extra-marital affairs.
> 
> As always, thank you for taking the time to read my story. If I could bother you a bit more to comment or kudos, I'd really appreciate it! Feedback is the true power behind dark matter-- scientists just haven't figured that out yet. ^_~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is it that, just when you really need to write to take your mind off things, your muse takes off for the Crab Nebula without so much as a post-it note? Seriously, I've been trying to finish this since late August, but I think we're finally good to go. As always, kudos and comments make me a happy little speckle, and keep me motivated to decipher my own bloody handwriting. ^^'
> 
> May I present Chapter Two: in which Steve considers the situation in a larger context and very quietly panics, Tony panics less quietly, and the boys manage to communicate without really talking.  
> Because talking is silly and hard. ;-)

Steve isn't terribly surprised to find that the bathroom is just as ridiculous as the bedchamber, though thankfully free of living ornament. Almost the size of the suite proper, its gently curving walls are lined with columns of nephrite-veined marble, all gathered in attendance around a central sunken bath. The floor, where visible, is done in tile of greenish quartz. Any pattern it might have is lost under the preponderance of thick white rugs, which Steve can only view with horror, knowing the effort it must take to keep them so clean. The ceiling opens to a stained glass cupola, casting everything in translucent shadows of topaz, lime, and viridian. Even the tub is lined with soft faux fur, the waterproof kind that costs a small fortune and must be replaced regularly. The faucet handles are gold, in the shape of leaping dolphins-- a detail so outrageous Steve actually clamps a hand over his mouth to trap the belly-deep chuckles of hysteria suddenly bubbling within. 

This is madness! He has fallen into a land of attitudes and expectations so foreign he might as well be on one of the Imperium's infant colonies. If the intersection of fate and random circumstance affected him alone, he would still be overwhelmed, but at least he would be free of the guilt that hass been nagging him-- however distantly, thanks to heat and pheromones-- since he lost sight of Bucky's face in the crowd nights ago. Barnes has always refused to divulge just how he managed to get _both_ of them interviews with the most high-profile and high-paying employer in three districts, but whatever it was had to be impressive. They're not rolling in credits by any means, but this is the most Rogers has ever been paid for what is essentially menial labor. It's work most comparable establishments have automated to one degree or another, but the Grandmaster prides himself on providing the authentic luxury of human servants. As a bouncer, Bucky's function is more glamorous only by virtue of visibility. He must always look immaculate, but he says it's really just a lot of hurry-up-and-wait. When he is needed, there's always a barrage of abuse from the offending alpha or alphas, none of whom hesitate to remind the guards of their place on the social totem pole. 'If I had a five-piece for every time some drunken peacock told me they could buy and sell my whole family, I might be able to buy and sell _them_.' 

Still, it's not bad work, as work to be had with only a Basic Education certificate goes. They can afford real meat every ten-day-- not synthetic protein strips-- if Steve hasn't been too sick, and they bought a larger heat cube over the winter. More importantly, they can lodge at whatever beta boarding house they choose. No living in a company compound where they garnish half your wages for the privilege of tenancy in a cupboard. Recently, Bucky's started going on about how, in a few months, he might be able to take out a loan on a mid-sized holo vid unit, something he's been lusting after for quite a while.

Even if the Grandmaster doesn't fire Tweedle Dee for the follies of Tweedle Dumb, the life Steve had is like Babylondon, which G-d struck from the Earth so thoroughly even the island on which it stood disappeared. The story of Lot's wife teaches one not to look back, but that's a hard command to follow when someone you love might be left to make their own way in the ashes.

 

Whatever anyone on the outside might think, Steve has never seen a reason to be unhappy with the life he and Bucky lead. Sure, he's wanted more sometimes, but doesn't everyone? As a boy, he had wanted adventure, like the garbled tales of Old Earth his mother used to read to him, but there isn't much room for that in the Imperium. If he'd been of solid stock, like Bucky, they both might have signed up for an experimental colony-- rough living for betas only as they toiled to make things decent for the population to follow. Everything about humanity's expansion has to be slow and methodical, the recruiting films say. Alphas make the plans, betas carry them out and, when all is said and done, omegas will be moved to ready-made worlds with no material difference from the one they've left. 

It's a dream he hasn't admitted to since childhood, bright like a vein of silver through the ore of learned practicality. Nothing but mental flotsam from the start, such hopes, but there are still little things he can have. You make do. During festivals and the heavy-traffic of First and Second Summer, the Grandmaster brings in famous City artisans to produce the revues. Play-writes-- such as they are in the dubious genre of the 'boudoir stage'-- and costumers, set specialists who argue over color and lighting, even a hot-ticket 'tweener to headline. On the off-season, though, its just the aging stage manager with Peggy as part-time assistant, so they often let Steve do some of the set design. Especially for the raunchy late-night numbers. 'Just a flat holo-backdrop will be fine,' Reinstein might say, 'Do one of your Post-Burn deco revival things. No one's really paying attention, we just need to set the mood.'

What compensation Rogers receives-- if any-- is a pittance. Reinstein takes it out of his own paycheck, when he can afford it. But it's nice to do something other than scrub pots, and the chorus 'tweeners are always very complimentary about his designs. They like Steve, with the absent companionability one shows towards a pet or mascot. Sometimes it rankles, but mostly it's fine. He's never really expected to find another beta willing to take him as a romantic mate-of-choice, and his brotherly partnership with Bucky has always been enough for him. At age seven, he'd run headlong into a trio of alphas beating up on some unfortunate beta from town. The interference mostly resulted in said alphas whaling the tar out of _him_ , but it had given the previous victim enough time to grab a discarded dura-steel pipe and start swinging, eventually rescuing Steve in turn. From that point on, he and Bucky have been locked in one another's orbit and, if they've never quite been able to articulate the balance attained or empty spaces filled by their friendship, then that's okay. They've had little need. There's an _esprit de corps_ amongst betas other polymorphisms just don't understand. Betas enter and leave existence alone; no 'perfect match for them, be it genetic or spiritual. G-d's gift to their sex is that of choice. They can make a pact in full possession of their faculties; ' _together, all the way to the end of the line'_. 

 

Steve feels like a traitor now. The creature reflected in the numerous, narrow mirrors inlaid about the room is no different from the person he was four days ago, save for the regalia of robe and visible love-bites. Yet the reflection now looks and feels quite alien, as when one stares at a particular word or phrase for so long it ceases to make sense. It's wrong, it's all wrong somehow, and he feels his chest constrict as anxiety crests over him, no longed levied back by the bond and its attendant biochemicals.

' _Breathe, Stevie,_ ' Bucky's borrowed voice instructs, ' _Nice and easy, come on._ ' Familiar words, easy enough to obey. A barrage of thumping on the bathroom door quickly ruins the nascent rhythm, though-- especially when Steve startles at the sound of his mate's voice drifting in from the other side. 

"Steve, I can feel-- are you alright!?" There's an edge of panic in Tony's voice, though its impossible to tell if Rogers himself is bleeding over via the bond or if it is merely an instinctual alpha response to their mate's distress. Regardless, the protectiveness radiating from Stark's end of the connection is powerful and enveloping-- almost but not quite stifling, as an untried swimmer might find the deliquescence of the sea. 

"'M alright," Rogers says, in typical blatant defiance of the facts. He stumbles towards the sink in its little alcove, the functional parts of the room being clustered in a recess absurdly like a church vestibule. "It's fine. Just nerves."

"Are you certain?" Tony asks, after a pause in which his mate can sense the inventor weighting the right to privacy against the sheer overwhelming desire to offer succor. Most alphas likely would have broken the door down by now, sliding dura-steel panels or no, so Steve works hard to project gratitude for the space instead of distress over everything else. 

"Yeah!" he calls back, bracing himself against the marble sink, palms flat and arms locked straight at the elbows. No, no, don't tense up! "I've got this!"

' _That'll end up etched on your crematory plaque if you're not careful_ ,' Bucky's voice repeats, having said as much often enough in reality. ' _If nothing else, you have the tough-guy poker face down pat._ '

 

Yet that doesn't matter anymore, does it? Rogers may still have that shield against the world-- the flinty look in his eyes and the battle-readiness that doesn't go with his frame-- but Tony won't be fooled. Stark is behind the protective barrier _with_ Steve, under the mask and up against his skin. As close as the heart that always beats wildly within his chest during any confrontation, no matter how calm or determined he may appear. 

The bond's intensity should ebb though, he thinks, inner voice unconsciously adopting the uniformly encouraging tone of EduComputers from his youth. They'll each get a handle on their own end, for practicality's sake at least. Sheer self-preservation. Stark certainly won't want his inexperienced, public-educated bondmate exposed to the plethora of sensitive information in the industrialist's mind. Perhaps comforted by the promise of future privacy, or even by his alpha's psychic solicitude, Steve watches his own pale, blue-tinged complexion begin to revive in the mirror, leaving a reflection that seems more familiar than anything he's seen so far this bizarre morning. 

Stark, who has been lingering on the opposite side of the door for longer than his vocalizations would have indicated, is at last moving away. Steve can sense the other man forcing his attention elsewhere. A moment later, a distant, one-sided conversation begins. "Still here, Pep. Yeah. Well, if that's true then I want you to land on them with both of your dainty but oh-so-capable feet! … Well, no, but if I'm not prepared for this, I can guarantee he isn't either-- he's not a pawn and I won't have him treated like one!"

 

Despite the likelihood that he himself is the topic of conversation, Rogers feels only relief as the coppery baritone fades a bit-- still audible, but just below the mind's ability to parse without active concentration. Tony is obviously still moving about in the large bedchamber. He strikes Steve as the sort to pace, not from frustration or anxiety, but because his restless body cannot travel the endless vistas of his mind.

' _Are those jug-handles of yours burning, Steve-O?_ ' the schoolyard alphas used to tease. ' _Everybody's talkin' about you, runt!_ '  
' _Who can wrangle idle tongues?_ ' was his mother's more philosophical approach, accompanied by a heavenward roll of her eyes when people pointed at them on the street. ' _Just control what you can…_ '  
' _And let the rest of the world take a flying fuck at you_ ,' Steve always silently added during his adolescence, thereafter guiltily wondering of G-d could wash your _brain_ out with soap. 

 

Pushing the long crimson sleeves of the robe up past his elbows, Rogers activates the wash basin, dashing several handfuls of cool water on his face. The facilities are no less grand for being hidden discretely away, though it seems a waste of space to dedicate so much of the room to opulent tub and rugs alone. There's even a plush waterproof settee on the far side of the bath. It's as if the human function of digestive elimination is too crude to be acknowledged. But then, what does Steve know about the hygiene habits of high society alphas? Maybe some can't even lower themselves to cop a squat, and so just explode when they're forty. 

The thought makes him chuckle, a sound thankfully light on hysteria. It's the sort of odd-ball, half-irreverent humor that makes him feel more settled-- a 'what-can-you-do-about-it' whistling in the dark. Moving perhaps a bit gingerly, he avails himself of said lavatory and then even the bidet. Normally the latter might seem like just another facet of decadence, but he's grateful for the lukewarm water, washing himself with his typical detachment. It doesn't quite work, though, no matter how diffident his own touch remains. While there's no actual pain, he does have areas of undeniable hyperawareness, muscles pleasantly sore in a way he would not have credited without experiencing it himself. The remnant sensitivity carries its own vague eroticism; tantalizing, ghostly caresses to his core, his nipples (which Tony subjected to the most assiduous, loving torture), and the bonding scar on his neck. The latter throbs deliciously when brushed by the robe's collar, but Steve has avoided examining it-- either by his own touch, or in the mirror. This new sensuality is already making his body feel like an odd contrivance he's somehow piloting. There's no reason to reinforce such delusions by lingering over that which so blatantly marks him as no longer his own. They speak of 'self-possession', of getting ahold of one's self, but an omega belongs to their alpha alone.  
Things are under new management-- perhaps that's why he's falling apart. 

It is universally acknowledged that betas have notoriously low libidos, something society as a whole views with a sort of vindicated pity. _'Isn't it a shame? But then, G-d made betas for more industrious ends'_. Exclusively in their own company, that same 'middle sex' inverts the notion, mocking the other polymorphisms. _'Who can say what the true baseline is? Perhaps the alphas and omegas are over-sexed!'_ Resentful humor; laughter after a sock in the jaw, your mouth full of bloody teeth. Part of it stems from the institutionalized use of betas for titillation and the fact unbounded alphas consider coupling with them a safe outlet for lust. Technically, alpha/beta intercourse is illegal, but political or financial visibility can achieve a paradoxically remarkable amount of discretion. People are always willing to look the other way for the right price. 

While the Grandmaster hardly runs a brothel, Steve knows for a fact that a few of the more lithesome and convincing chorus _tweeners_ have been pressured into giving 'private shows'. Nor is it uncommon for guests to bring beta companions-- not into the public dining or entertainment areas, of course, but to chambers such as the one he and Tony are utilizing now. It's all there, writ large in a lascivious wink or the tap of a few deca-credits into someone's personal PADD, as ubiquitous and transparent as the air they breathe. 

 

Be it the seamy atmosphere of the club, general disinterest, or some combination thereof, Rogers has never made a habit of touching himself. While the Church has no objection to onanism for betas, since all are sterile regardless of male/female secondary sex characteristics, Steve just never seems to have the urge. What would he picture, anyway? His half-worshipful crush on Peggy might move him artistically and emotionally, but there's never been a physical component, and the attitudes he sees backstage have made him loathe to exploit their friendship even in the relative safety of fantasy. In the blank dark behind his eyes, any attempt at strictly sensual enjoyment of his own body has always made him feel self-conscious and oddly claustrophobic. 

 

( _The tightening of a noose, of fears that chase any stir of arousal, hot on its heels like an angry mob. What if taking himself in hand… _does_ something? Makes him sick, like that winter he spent a whole ten-day feeling so damn strange-- hot, prickly, and full of need, unable to leave the bed and barely able to stop himself from rubbing off on the sheets? That much time off work had been very nearly disastrous. His absence-- suddenly 'chronic' despite six months of previous good service, of coming in even when he wasn't at his best-- had nearly gotten both he and Bucky fired. At his wit's end, knowing full well how slender their resources were, Barnes finally went down to see the village druggist's ancient, crotchety omega. He did so without telling Steve, returning home with empty pockets and an ochre-colored gummy substance, which smelled like sanitation 'bot and tasted like the inside of a sock. After having a row over high-handed saviors and stubborn patients, they'd dissolved the stuff in tea and found it did the trick in hours. If Steve and Bucky were thereafter obligated to bring the old omega a cream drop soda or vitamin cakes every time they went out that way-- enduring 'grandpere's evaluating gaze the entire time-- then it was a small price to pay for dodging questions and avoiding having one's soul in hock to the medical dispensary._ )

 

The memory of that time is like a fever dream, filled with unfocused anxiety and insidiously sliding colors. He wonders now if the incident wasn't his body's aborted attempt at the 'Presentation' omegas typically endure on the cusp of adolescence. If he _had_ gone to a clinic, would they have been able to identify him then? He's never had another episode like it, never been subject to the heat cycles which are supposed to follow. Shuddering, Steve finds himself ridiculously grateful to Bucky's resourcefulnessf and his own aversion to medical care. It's bought him years of liberty he might not have had otherwise, to say nothing of the fact his meeting with Tony would have been averted. 

The very thought of his own life so carelessly and unwittingly avoiding intersecting with his mate's fills Steve with a sense of visceral repugnance, quite at odds with the fact he isn't certain intellectually that he wishes to be bonded at all. The dual beliefs ( _'This is mine, **Tony** is mine; no, no, I never wanted my freedom to be forfeit!'_ ) create within him a painful schism, each side convinced _it_ is rational and legitimate. This must be what they called the 'beeps'-- Bonding Panic. 'Poor sap has the beeps,' he's heard alpha patrons say, rolling their eyes. Or, 'Better him than me. And what about that gentlestag who used to lead the hart-lynx hunt? Gave it up because his omega didn't like the 'carnage'. Damn _veritas_. May the fates always be one step behind me!'

There are alphas out there who, despite the constant bombardment of romantic clap-trap via song, drama, and advertising, think they can give the Universe the slip. At least they _have_ that choice, to run from G-d, the gods, or just random operation of circumstance, and hope to remain free agents. Most omegas end up in political, arranged bonds if no _veritas_ imprint occurs; in the end, they're at the mercy of either biology's caprice or their parents' ambition. But if you're an alpha, already your own master in an Imperium of 1.5 billion people, the odds are a bit better you can stay that way.  
_'Of course, everyone,'_ the Grandmaster has been known to say, looking down at the tiered acres of the casino, _'thinks they can run a good con. In the end, the House always wins.'_

 

It is in the process of his intimate ablutions that a thought occurs to Steve-- one which should have been immediately apparent the moment his mind began to clear. The events of the past several days may be hazy and ephemeral, but their _purpose_ is concrete. Iron-clad, the age-old story; and iron-cold are the tendrils of realization-- bedecked with innumerable thorns-- which unfurl with slow horror from Roger's subconscious, where the seed has been waiting.

The **seed**.  
Like a shift along the spectrum of light, his perception changes utterly while the world itself remains unaltered. What has been a fairly academic consideration of his 'new' biological identity and the consequences thereof-- terrifying enough for the cascade of changes it portends for his comfortable and prosaic life-- is cast suddenly in the ultra-violet of visceral, mortal dread. Even the bond he both treasures and fears is really only a means to an end for, since humanity's close brush with self-annihilation, _veritas_ imprinting has drawn pairs together for one all-consuming purpose.  
Procreation. 

Feeling abysmally foolish and longing for the ignorance of only moments ago, Steve barely notices the sudden liquefaction of his knees. Hands failing to find purchase on the sides of the marble sink, he slides down to the verdant tile floor, hips and tailbone jarring against the hard surface as though to emphasize how ill-suited they are for the task Nature has apparently chosen. His own mother had been a slender creature, and the entry of her son into the world a prolonged and dangerous ordeal. She very nearly perished. Certain persons in the village were not shy about remarking that it might have been better if she had-- she and her runt pup, with her. While perhaps an inch or so taller than Sarah har'Rogers, Steve is thinner still, and of a more 'delicate' (how he _loathes_ that term!) constitution. During his official classification as a beta, he'd been given all the clinical reasons why he was a genetic dead-end. He'd listened politely to the healer's apprentice, of course, though he could easily given the lecture chapter and verse himself. It was only what he'd heard from every teacher, healer, priest, and Church acolyte since he was old enough for schooling. Now the grotesque cosmic joke is perfectly, irrationally obvious: G-d, who supposedly knew better than to allow Steve's genes to spread, has in fact pulled the ultimate bait-and-switch.  
And, given Steve's physical weakness, what nearly took his mother's life will almost certainly take his. 

 

_'Now, roll the dice again,'_ says a phantom echo of the Grandmaster, right next to Steve's ear and seemingly at least as real as the renewed pounding at the bathroom door. 

"Pep, Pep," he can hear Tony saying, like some codeword or echo in a schoolyard game. Red Rover, Alpha-May-I. "When the transport's here, just put in on stand-by, I don't know--" Then, more distinctly, "Steve! Steve!," in a way that travels down the bond like the most industrious of winter winds, chill fingers always finding the slightest gap in threshold or window frame. Rogers shivers uncontrollably, though in truth he is flushed hot with his folly and his fear.

_'And what did you think was going to happen, when you moved under his hands and let him play you like a virtuoso at a lyre freshly carved?'_ The voice sounds vaguely like the village Abbess, but it is really far more ambiguous-- an amalgamation of every faceless intonation of Imperium culture, reminding everyone of their purpose and their place. Steve cannot conceive-- ha, ha!-- of a future with a child, doesn't know if he's ever wanted one or not, for one rarely forms an opinion on the impossible. He would sooner have realistically contemplated what it would be like to sprout wings and fly. How can he look to the future through the lens of his own mortality, and which is more disturbing-- death, which he could accept as honorable if it gave life, or the responsibility of protecting a tiny, innocent creature if he himself should miraculously live? 

_'You **begged** for his knot,'_ the inner chastisement continues, sounding like a tract on omega purity, though far more licentious than most. Church publications always couch the act in metaphor: 'the red bird flies through the vermillion gate', 'the lock of creation embraces the golden staff'. _'You begged, you held his member inside as though you might steal it away, you spread your legs…'_

Steve's throat is constricting in a way that can only be remedied by his Tri-Ox pills, but even that thought only summons a coil of hysterical laughter trapped in his gut. Isn't that the old chestnut-- that an omega need have no fear of pregnancy if only they held a capsule between their knees? 

"Pep, I have to go." The words are uttered by some being outside the swirl of madness. Then his name again, much louder, as though from all directions-- within, and without. "Steve," Tony says, the tolling of a remorseful bell, "I'm sorry, but I'm coming in."

'No,' Rogers tries to gasp out, contrary to the end, but the attempt at vocalization quickly dissolves into a tempestuous coughing fit.

 

"Hades on his throne!" the alpha swears in fear and dismay, having opened the door more quickly than Steve anticipated, especially given the fact the privacy locks had been engaged. The effort to rise only serves to leave him standing on his knees and, as the fit of hacking deepens, he can only double over on one of the endless white rugs. "What is it?" Tony asks, seemingly at his side in an instant. "Steve, babe, what--"

There are any number of practical things Rogers could tell his mate, providing he could push anything past through the thin crevasse his throat has become. What he becomes illogically fixated on is the notion that, should he die right here and now, he has no idea which version of Last Rites should or would be given to him. He has lived as a beta-- should he then be shriven in his last moments as an omega? This is quite the puzzle, dislodged from focus only as Tony physically shakes him in escalating panic. At last, something sensible comes to mind: an image of the pill vial, stashed as always in the pocket of his trousers. This, at least, seems vivid enough to penetrate the static of confusion now emanating from both ends of the bond. With an agonized glance that betrays his reluctance to leave his mate for even a moment, Stark quickly whirls to dash back into the main suite. 

Seconds slip by as in a lava hourglass whose neck is too narrow, dollops protracting into grotesquely elongated tears. Managing perhaps only three breaths in the interim, Steve is immeasurably relieved by Tony's return, gaze riveted on the life-saving vial held in those strong, elegant fingers. Perhaps only twice the circumference of a stylus and small enough to disappear entirely in Bucky's fist (though not quite so swallowed by Steve's), the container is made of a pale durasteel that, despite the material's known longevity, still has enough wear to betray omnipresence in its owner's life. The day Rogers received it has passed out of memory, lost with the day he first learned to toddle or grasp things in a tiny, pudgy hand. The stopper is attached by a short chain, the only 'ornament', save where his initials are inexpertly stained along the side. The last bit is Steve's doing, using a laser pen and cobalt flame-dye-- one of the many amateur skills he's picked up in a long string of woefully short machining jobs. The vial has been tossed, kicked, stepped on, and given the old heave-ho into puddles only slightly more often than Steve himself, but it is the tiny, chalky capsules within the watertight tube that are truly dear.

Flicking the top open with a practiced thumb, Roger's fingers blindly ascertain there is the only one pill in his palm before he shoves the tiny missile under his tongue. At the same time, he clamps his lips together in a grim vise. Once in contact with his saliva, the pill begins to dissolve-- not as liquid, but as a pure oxygenated mist. 'Tri-Ox', the Pharma Guild calls it. Breathing out through his nose, careful that only carbon dioxide should escape, he inhales through lips still mostly closed, tipping his head back to ensure as much of the precious substance flows down into his lungs as possible. Steve has never seen an ocean with his own two eyes, but he nevertheless pictures the sudden relief he experiences in just that manner. The mist, vaguely salty with additives of analgesic and minor muscle relaxers, is like a dense wave crashing upon the shore of some previously airless moon. That first high tide which comes to pull him from where he lies, beached and breathless as any mer-folk of his mother's stories, in an ever darkening limbo.

 

The black spots in his vision scatter and fade, and the first few unencumbered lungfuls of air taste almost unbearably sweet. Then there's the lack of pain as tension drains from his body, the absence of hurt becoming its own separate sensation. One he cannot help but savor, despite his body's most recent betrayal. When awareness expands at last beyond the battlefield of his own physiology, it includes the weight of his alpha kneeling beside him. Those strong, oddly elegant hands are raised in a parody of surrender, as though Tony wishes to take Steve by the shoulders but cannot quite bring himself to risk a single touch. 

Sure enough, when Rogers closes his eyes to quell the remnant dizziness, the alpha's instincts finally overwhelm him. A single finger trails down Steve's knobby spine, followed by the strokes of a full, flat palm. Both touches are soothing, grounding, chased by an answering flair of warmth in their bond. If Stark could have left it at that, the younger man would have simply soaked up the attention like sunshine on a windless winter day. What follows, however, is as predictable as it is irksome, for those same hands come to gather Steve up and haul him into the alpha's lap.

Steve fights this on both instinct and principle, though the division is not even. The majority of his resistance _is_ genuine alarm-- for as long as he can remember, the only nonthreatening touch he's known has been that of his mother or Bucky. His size always made him easy pickings for schoolyard displays of pack hierarchy and, rather than lament or rail against such matters, he instead quickly developed a swiftness and agility that exploits his slight frame. He's been called a slippery little bastard more than once.  
'Problem is,' Bucky always points out, 'you don't have the sense to hightail it out of there once you're free.'

It's true. Steve always turns back to face the enemy, whomever that might be. Now it takes perhaps ten seconds for the wounded puzzlement washing acid-hot through the bond to penetrate a lifetime of habit, reminding him that the grip he faces at present is not adversarial at all. Even then, he only tempers his struggles to avoid harming Tony (all else aside, Rogers does possess a mean right hook) rather than acquiescing entirely.  
He's no one's pet or plaything, to be moved about with no regard for his own will. 

 

Then, abruptly, there is nothing to struggle against. The alpha unhands his mate, and they stare at one another for several long, protracted moments while their chests heave in tandem for separate reasons entirely. The bond vibrates with emotionally charged color/scents which do not echo the expression on Tony's face-- or at least the way Rogers would have interpreted it without added psychic insight. What he sees is a look of astonishment and concern tempered by the self-assurance that pervades the features of any fortunate stranger to defeat, and something Steve might have labeled irritation. What he _feels_ is fear, confusion, and an oppressive sense of predetermined failure which is-- for reasons Steve cannot determine-- also the nauseating scent of vita-cigars and outdated alpha's cologne. His shoulder aches with a phantom grasp of steel, the sort of congratulatory clasp which is also a warning.  
Though Steve's own immediate sensation is one of guilt, as though he himself is some sort of peeping Tom, he also can't help but find the paradox rather striking. 

 

( _'You're not the only one who carries a shield, darling.'_ )

Is that Tony's thought, or only Steve's admittedly vivid imagination? It's rare for bondmates to communicate more than impressions, ideas, or vague memories, but it isn't unheard of.

"Alright, alright," Stark says aloud. If the message was his, he is likely unaware of it. "You don't like that, and I guess I can understand." Rather than acting spurned or moving away entirely, Tony merely scoots back a bit on the tile, ensuring the soft rug is entirely beneath Steve before laying his head in the startled omega's lap. "Just… I can't…"

( _Another powerful image, one Rogers might find offensive if it did not resonate with him as well. That feeling which only a practiced winner-- as opposed to the mere gambler-- has when it is time to walk away from the table and its glittering dice. The wheel, the cards, the race horses, are about to turn against you-- only you can't leave, because you're chained to a dealer who is smiling all teeth._ )

"Just breathe-- you weren't breathing--" he says, as if Steve might not have noticed, "-- and tell me if there's anything I can do. I can get a doctor or a healer--" He seems to share Roger's opinion that such creatures are alien and not altogether trustworthy. Luckily, Steve's own feeling on the matter are emphatic enough to quell that line of inquiry without Tony raising his head to read the other man's thunderous expression. 

"I'm sure they would be happy to take your money," the smaller man says, trying to gentle his gut reaction even as he feels Stark tense, "but there's not much they can do. These things happen… often enough that I carry the pills to begin with."

"Village healers or the dubious credentials of those in the Grandmaster's pay!" the alpha dismisses, as if someone like Steve would be worth even a glance from the doctor kept on staff at the resort. "In Nova York and Hu'Maliwo, there are specialists-- lots and lots of specialists! We can see as many as--"

Bristling reflexively at the vague implications of condescension and charity, Rogers manages to check himself. It's on his lips to say that he has always looked out for himself-- a half-truth Bucky was always kind enough to avoid correcting-- but he stays that, too. ' _Throwing money at it--_ ' No, no, he can't start there either. People with financial resources don't like attention drawn to how much it eases them past obstacles. Steve may be a plain talker, but his genuine desire not to wound Tony deliberately helps him dredge up a little diplomacy from somewhere. "It's not one issue you can point to and fix. I'm… you haven't exactly bagged yourself a winner here."

"Shut up, shut up," Stark says with surprising ferocity. For all their vehemence, the words lack heat, leading Steve to believe the anger and negation are not aimed at him. If Tony has complaints to lodge with the Almighty, he may need to get in line. "Don't say things like that." As if to reinforce this, the alpha kisses his bondmate's fingers. Roger's bony digits are still wrapped tightly around the vial of pills, yet Tony touches them with lips as reverent as a believer kissing the ring of the Hierophant in New Rome. 

 

Rogers strokes the other man's hair out of deep and inexplicable kinship, focusing on the silky texture and his own evening respiration. His lungs tingle with remnants of the mist and he tips his head back, savoring all the little ways his body relaxes after an attack. As a child, he'd sometimes thought of the tales of changelings after the Burn: the scrawny creatures Ruin-folk produced in those rare instances radiation did not render them sterile. It was supposedly the aim of all debased tribes to find some pure human infant unattended and secretly make an exchange since, while not as healthy uncorrupted normal babies, changelings did look remarkably similar in their early lives. It was only as they matured that their abhorrent nature became unmistakable, and Steve remembers carefully examining his own body in the brief privacy of their small bathroom, looking for tumors, toes growing into hooves, buboes, or any of the other myriad signs of degeneration. He passes his tongue over dry lips, thinking how funny childhood fears are… and the backhanded way they sometimes come true. 

Tony bobs back up with just as little warning as when he laid his head down and, as Steve reacts to the sudden motion, his chin almost collides with the alpha's skull. Both of them manage to dodge in time, which leaves them nose-to-nose with one another, so close Rogers can see the flecks of deep cadmium gold which hide in his bondmate's dark eyes. He licks his lips again, mouth suddenly far more dry than may be accounted for by mere medicinal side-effects. 

"Water!" Stark says, as though a student shouting out the answer in class. "May I get you some water?"

Dumbly, Steve nods, stunned both by the fervor of the question and Tony's unconscious, delighted relief at having found some concrete task. The piquant aftertaste of the pills mixes with the bitterness of his recent revelation until it seems he has a mouthful of ash. Already, a part of him longs for his alpha's nearness (what fools they were, to think the hormonal snare could be slipped so easily!) knowing, with an an instinct that defies self-preservation, that they should be close as skin to skin. And closer still. 

Normally, Steve hates to be fussed over, hates the limitations of a body which refuses to accommodate the spirit within. Both Bucky and Peggy know to hand him his pills and turn away, providing at least an illusion of privacy and remnant dignity. Stark's attention and consideration inspire not hot irritation, but a bleeding warmth, as if Steve has donned a mantle of sunshine that can soothe even the coldest hidden marrow of his bones. Perhaps it is only the implied reassurance of his alpha's acceptance

( _'Look what poor Stark is stuck with!' the internal critics chorus_ )

but it's actually too late now. Rejection, if it were possible at all given the apparent strength of their connection, would have taken place in the initial scenting phase. Rogers rationalizes the fluttering sensation of being _cherished_ as an anomaly rather than a true feeling, since bondmates are notoriously codependent as they adjust to their connection.  
The 'beeps' again.

 

Stark returns with alacrity, studying his mate's face as he hands over a tall goblet of water, presumably from some decanter in the main suite. It may be that Steve's worries are as loud as they feel inside his own head-- the thought is almost preferable to the notion his expression has betrayed him. He has a lot of grit ('piss and vinegar', Reinstein called it once, having come upon a powder-wielding chorus beta helping Steve conceal a shiner) but, sheer hard-headedness aside, he'll never be a poker player. At times, he's been told he wears his thoughts on his sleeve. Which, he supposes, is better than his heart. Either way, Tony shakes his head, vehemently denying the unspoken fear of rejection. In a way, Rogers is fortunate; there are now so many anxious unknowns in his life that the deepest terror-- that of his suddenly alien body and the procreative aim of heat itself-- will be difficult for Stark to hone in on.  
Nor is he alone in his intense vulnerability. As if to emphasize this, Tony takes the artist's hand, guiding it beneath the breast his robe and pushing the sapphire fabric aside. 

What Steve finds there-- first by blind touch and then by alarmed investigation-- should not surprise him. Yet, because his mind is experiencing the most clarity it has enjoyed since he dressed for work on nine of the ten-day, shock strikes him afresh. It is as though ground-lightning has fastened on his fingertips, traveling ominously to his core to kindle primal concern for his bonded. In a flash of agonizingly intimate detail, he recalls his own worried and inarticulate fussing when he'd truly first encountered it during their mating. As they'd grasped each other eagerly, each as desperate to learn the other's body as one memorizing a treasure which may be stolen away, he had come upon this… the scar on Tony's chest.

Naught but a shadow, reduced to faint and hateful graffiti by powerful dermal regenerators, the spiderweb of slashes radiates from a point just to the left of Tony's sternum, reaching loathsome white lines over the alpha's heart to just above his nipple. It is not that the scar itself is disgusting-- it is no different than the handful of far less flatteringly disguised marks Steve himself bears. It is the threat it represents to his mate's life that offends Roger's on an almost spiritual level. The thickest lines are crude slashes-- a village butcher would be less brutal!-- overlaid with fine incisions, all tracing back to the center of chaos, which is perceptibly darker and more apparent to his questing fingertips. It reminds him noting so much as the skewering of 'biological subjects' he has seen at traveling science carnivals, or the disjointed stained glass windows that depict the Solar Lamb stabbing a stake-like cross into the heart of Darkness itself. Medical technology in the Imperium is impressive, said to be greater than Old Earth's golden age, provided one has access to it; that any trace remains at all is a testament to how grievous the original wound must have been. In dim lighting, the cosmetic work would make it difficult to discern, but the location itself is like an unnecessary exclamation point, driving home the fact it is a miracle Tony survived. 

Steve recalls kissing it frantically as he laid against Tony's chest, distressed almost as if the wound were fresh. Knot anchored in his mate, Stark had soothed the omega soberly. Not a hint of the humor or cavalier wit which so characterized his public persona, only a solemnly repeated promise, ' _I'm here, I'm here. Our scars only tell us were we've been._ ' It had not been the time for detailed revelations, nor had their intimate hunger allowed the attention span for such. From what little Steve can glean from their suddenly static-filled bond, he doesn't expect the inventor to be particularly forthcoming now, either. 

Despite the fear of heat-resurgence and all its attendant dangers, Steve cannot fight the instinct to bend and kiss the remnants of violence written on Stark's skin. He does so with more reverence than he'd imagined himself capable of outside of Church, very aware of Tony's nipple hardening in proximity. When he raises his head, the alpha's fingers take hold of his chin-- not roughly, but with intent.

"No pity," Tony says, voice like sand on stone.

"None," Steve agrees, and allows the other man to put an arm around his shoulders. Not an attempt to provide comfort but rather to _share_ it, as one would with a merge meal.

They sit like that for some time, backs against the mirrored and marble wall, beside the washbasin with its faucet-dolphins leaping in gold. The silence between them is strange, thick but somehow incongruously comfortable. What can be said, at this point? Yet, as Steve gazes on their reflections amidst the forest of nephrite-veined columns, he cannot help but think they look like nothing so much as two boys sprawled and resting, deliberately relaxed to disguise the fact they are hopelessly lost. 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meredith's Glossary and Bizarre World-Building Notes:  
> [+] _'tweener_ \- slang term in this universe for a beta or younger alpha in 'drag' as an omega, basically creating the only 'opportunity' alphas have been pre- or extra-marital affairs.  
> [+] 1.5 billion people is (very) roughly equivalent to the population of Earth in the mid to late 1800's. Given the limited number of viable survivors, the rigors of space travel and establishing a colony, I figure it would take considerable time for a 'futuristic' reboot of civilization to reach today's numbers.  
> [+] _Hu'Maliwo_ \- is the source of present-day Malibu, a Chumash name meaning "surf sounds loudly". I known I'm not cute when I get all nerdy, but I still can't help it. ^_~''  
> [+] _Tri-Ox_ \- unashamedly cribbed from _Star Trek_. Pon Farr was A/B/O fic before we had A/B/O fic. ;-)
> 
> As always, thank you so much for taking the time to read! I'd love to know what you think!


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